


Selfish

by Halfmoon95



Series: Supernatural Imagines [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfmoon95/pseuds/Halfmoon95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After you get hurt on a hunt, Dean decides the only way to keep you safe is to force you to leave him. But what happens when he accomplishes that goal and decides he wants you back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a two part series that also appears on my tumblr (attemptingtowritefanfic).

Dean sits quietly in the white plastic chair, hands folded beneath his chin as he stares down at your sleeping form. The room is quiet save for the constant beeping of the heart monitor they have you hooked up to, and as his eyes trace over your form he can’t help but linger on the IV sticking out of your arm.

You. Hospitalized. Unconscious. Because of him.

The corner of a clean cotton bandage peeks up from underneath your hospital gown, the only sign of your injury. You’d gotten lucky, or at least, that’s what the doctor said. The knife slipped between two ribs but somehow didn’t hit anything vital. Hardest part was getting the blade out after it broke off of the handle.

That’s what the surgery had been for.

Dean reaches down and takes your hand, small and cold between his palms as he brings it up to his lips. “Why couldn’t you just do what I asked?” he whispers against your hand. “Why’d you have to try and be the hero?” But he knows why.

Because of him.

It lasted longer than he thought it would. Six months. One of his longest relationships, if he’s being honest. Hell, you’d almost had him convinced that you were the one, the one person who would actually be able to make it in his messed up life.

But Dean is cursed. Poison. Whatever you want to call it. People get close to him and then they get hurt or they get killed, and damn if it doesn’t suck but that’s life. He’s seen too many people, too many friends, too many people he  _loves_ wind up six feet under protecting him.

Not you. He can’t let that happen to you.

For a brief moment he relives it, that split-second where it all went wrong. You jumped between him and the guy you were working with, a hunter gone off the deep end, and Dean was helpless as you took a knife in the side.

For him.

You have to leave.

But he knows you. It’s not enough for him to push you away. It won’t be enough for  _him_ to leave  _you,_ because you’re stubborn as hell and usually he likes it but in this case all it would mean is that you’re going to come after him. Lord knows he wouldn’t be able to make you leave a second time. Dean can’t leave you. He doesn’t have the guts, doesn’t have the strength.

And if he can’t leave you, he’s just going to have to make you want to leave him.

“Dean?”

Dean’s head snaps up, pasting a weary smile in place when he sees your bright e/c eyes looking back at him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he whispers, kissing your hand again. “Sleep well?”

You look around blearily. “What happened? Where are we?” You start to sit up and he gently pushes your shoulders back down.

“Take it easy,” he says soothingly. “We’re in the hospital, had to bring you in after that bastard got you with his knife. You’re alright, nothing serious, but they had to do surgery to get the blade out.”

You nod. “Did you get him?”

For half a second Dean can smell gunpowder, can feel the kickback of his pistol as he puts three bullets into the back of the man’s head. “Yeah. I got him.”

You grin. “Good. Now get me the hell out of here, Winchester.”

Dean chuckles, but the laugh feels hollow and dies off quickly. “Not until the doc gives you the okay. Just rest for now. I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave.”

“Promise?” you say quietly, squeezing his hand.

He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss on your brow, stopping just to breathe in your scent, to reassure himself you’re still with him. “Promise.”

_And then I’ll get you to leave._

#

By now, Dean knows you well enough to know exactly what to do to drive you crazy. He gives himself a week. One week to take care of you after your injury, to be close to you, to touch you how he wants, to give you what you need.

Then he decides he’s waited long enough.

There is only one thing that he needs to do to get you to leave him. One single thing that will make or break you. All Dean has to do is treat you like you’re helpless.

He starts off small. It’s the little things, he knows, that can ruin a relationship. He doesn’t let you cook, even though that’s been part of your job since you moved into the bunker.

“You can’t cook to save your life,” you’d told him when he’d first carried your bags through the door and you’d been informing him of all the chores you’d be taking over. “And I refuse to eat Sam’s rabbit food, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.” Dean had readily agreed, eating anything you put in front of him with enthusiasm both because he loved you and because it was just that good.

When he finds you, a week after coming back from the hospital, in the kitchen getting ingredients ready for supper, he is quick about pulling off your apron, taking the whisk out of your hand, and leading you back to your room to lie down.

“Y/n, you were  _stabbed,”_ he insists even though you struggle with him. “You shouldn’t have to cook. You just need to get your rest.” He sees the anger in your eyes, the clench of your jaw. He sees the way you’re preparing to fight him on this.

But you back down, much to his disappointment (or is it relief?). “You’re right,” you tell him, crawling underneath the covers obediently. “I shouldn’t be trying to push myself yet.” You flash him a mischievous grin. “Keep me company?”

He shakes his head, wincing internally at the way you seem to deflate. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day. I’ll be in to check on you later.”

And after dinner that night, when you’re changing for bed and he glances over and sees the angry red scar where your stitches are, he quickly rolls over onto his side to face away from you.

He listens, eyes closed, and he can practically feel you staring at him before you crawl into bed.  You slide close to him, slinging one arm lazily over his waist. Ordinarily he would turn, wrap his free arm around your shoulders and cradle you close, but this time he just lays there. He feels you kiss his shoulder.

“Dean?” you whisper.

He sighs. “Hm?”

There’s a pause as you kiss his back again, and he instantly regrets not wearing a shirt to bed. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” Your warm breath across his skin makes him shiver a little, goosebumps raising up along his arms. “You feel kind of tense.”

He rolls over to face you, to tell you to go to sleep and that you need your rest, and is met instead with your mouth moving sweetly against his own. He kisses you back purely on instinct, hands drifting to your waist to help you on top of him, but then his palm brushes against your stitches and he gasps, pushing you off of him quickly and clambering out of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, looking up at him from where you landed against the pillows. Your eyes are wide, but you just look confused.

You should look scared. You should be afraid of him, because he will be the end of you.

“You’re still recovering,” he snaps, tone a little too harsh. He forces himself to soften a little. “I don’t want to mess up your stitches. We’ll have time for… other things, later.”

You nod. “Okay. Just - just come back to bed, then.”

Dean shakes his head. “You’ll get more rest without me here. I’ll sleep in the other room, just for a few days.”

And he leaves and shuts the door behind him.

#

A month after your stitches are out, Dean knows that it’s time to step up his game. You’ve been too patient, too understanding, too  _you,_ and if he wants you to leave he’s going to have to be more creative.

Despite the fact that the stitches are gone and the doctor has cleared you for all physical activity, Dean still refuses to let you go on hunts. For the first couple of weeks you seem okay with it, waving cheerfully from the doorway to the bunker as he and Sam pull out in the Impala. You always sound happy over the phone when you’re telling him what the research has turned up, and you’re always there to greet him with a hug and a kiss when he walks back through the door.

After the first week he stops letting you kiss him.

After the second, you don’t even hug.

The third week when he tells you he’s leaving for a case and that, again, you aren’t allowed to come, you actually get angry with him. You tell him that you’re fine, that you can handle a case, that there’s no reason to keep you there. But when he argues back, tells you that you just aren’t ready, that he just wants to keep you safe and this is the only way to do it, you back down again.

He knows you’re still angry. He can tell just by the way your arm remains folded across your chest as he watches you in the rearview mirror.

How can he get you to confront him?

It’s the fourth week when you finally snap.

“Hey, Y/n,” he says when he finds you in the library. “Sam found a case in North Carolina. We’re leaving in a couple of hours.”

You nod, closing up the lore book you’d been hunched over and aiming to move past him to pack your bag. “I’ll get ready to go.”

He sticks out his arm to stop you. “You’re not coming.”

“Why not?”

He folds his arms over his chest. “You’re not ready, yet.”

“Not ready yet?” You throw up your hands in exasperation -  _that’s it, baby, get angry -_ and stalk back into the library. “Dean. I’m  _fine._ My stitches are gone, the wound’s closed up, the doctor said I’m good for anything. I’m  _fine._ I can do this!”

“Look, Y/n, it’s nothing personal, okay?” He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “You were injured and it’s putting you out of the game for a while. It happens to the best of us.”

“I don’t  _need_ to be out of the game!” you argue. “Should I call Cas? Have him come tell you I don’t need healing? Do you want me to fight you, is that it? Test my skills?  _What,_ Dean? What do I have to do to get you to let me work cases again?”

“You could start by showing me you’re competent,” he suggests coldly.

Your eyes go wide. “Competent?  _Competent?_ Just because I’m not suicidal like you doesn’t mean I’m incompetent!”

“Your attitude is telling me otherwise,” he retorts. “And whether you like it or not, I’m in charge around here. I’m calling the shots. And I say that  _you. Aren’t. Ready.”_

 _“Why?_ Because I’m not Sam? Because I’m not  _you?”_ You shove his chest. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You can’t handle letting other people take any risks!”

He points his finger at you. “That’s not true.”

“Like hell it’s not! It’s completely true! You can’t deal with the idea that the great Dean Winchester doesn’t always get to sacrifice himself! You don’t like the fact that the great _Dean Winchester_ doesn’t always get the glory, doesn’t always get to die a hero!” You shove him again, this time harder. “Well I’ve got news for you! You’re  _not_ the only decent hunter in this room! I was fine without you before and I’ll be just as fine without you now!”

“Then go!” Dean shouts, and he can tell by the way you stagger back a step that he’s surprised you. “There’s the door! You don’t like how I’m running things? No one is asking you to be here!”

There’s quiet in the room now, just the both of you breathing heavily.

“Is that what you want?” you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. “You want me to leave?”

He opens his mouth, willing himself to say something,  _anything._

But he can’t. He can’t do it. He can’t just tell you to leave him.

“Hey, Dean, I-” Sam walks into the room, stopping short when he sees the expression on your face. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dean swallows around the dryness in his throat. “What is it, Sam?”

“I just got off the phone with Garth,” Sam replies, holding up his cell to illustrate. “He said he’s already taken care of the case in North Carolina. We don’t have to go down there anymore.”

Dean nods. “Good. That’s - that’s good.” He risks a glance at you. You’re still staring at him in disbelief, in pain, and damn if it doesn’t break his heart. Dean snatches up his keys off of the table. “I’m going to the bar,” he mutters.

He slams the door shut behind him.

#

Dean didn’t want it to come to this. He’s been hoping this whole time that just angering you was enough, that if he kept you away from hunts and kept his distance you’d eventually give up and leave. He didn’t give you enough credit. You’re too dedicated, loyal to a point of idiocy. He has no doubt that you would let him hurt you over and over and over again if you thought he still loved you.

He has to convince you that he doesn’t.

It doesn’t take him long to find a target, a pretty little blonde number leaning up against the counter. He sidles up to her, back in the game, puts on the charm. He lets her think that she’s the prettiest girl in the room and that this night is going to go down in her history books as one to remember.

She excuses herself to the restroom and he takes that opportunity to pull out his phone and text you.  **Sammy,** he types,  **Won’t be home tonight. Do me a favor and keep Y/n out of my hair for a few hours until I leave the bar.**  He sends it to you, not to Sam, knowing that it’s just suspicious enough to make you come running.

His new friend is back. He can’t even remember her name, but he lets her lead him out onto the dance floor and press against him as the bass pounds through the floor and into his feet. He dances with her like he knows he should, hands low on her hips, head bowed to hover over her. Every time their eyes meet he flashes her a grin, but he keeps his gaze moving, surveying the room.

It only takes you five minutes to get to the bar. He watches you walk in, wearing his leather jacket of all things, and it’s when he sees your face freeze into place that he knows you’ve spotted him.

He meets your gaze and holds it for a long moment, just watching. And then he spins the girl in his arms and kisses her.

He closes his eyes and sinks into it, pressing his body tightly against her’s, hand tangling in her hair, and when he comes up for air he looks to where you were standing and sees just empty space. He looks around, checking to make sure you’re gone, and as soon as he knows the coast is clear he pushes the girl away from him.

“What the hell?” she demands, glaring at him.

“It’s nothing personal,” he replies, already walking away. 

He gets into his car and heads for the bunker.

#

He sits in the garage for ten minutes before finally braving the door. He can already hear you swearing, even from the entrance. He can hear the way you’re slamming objects around the room and screaming and crying. He can hear Sam asking you what’s wrong, trying to calm you down.

His phone buzzes in his hand and he looks down to see a text from Sam.

**Y/n. 911. Get here ASAP.**

**“** Sammy!” Dean calls, letting the both of you know he’s there. “What’s going on?” He starts heading down the hall to where your room is. He pushes open the door to your room.

Dean barely has time to dodge the lamp as it slams into the wall where his head used to be.

“ _Get out, Dean!”_

He holds up his hands, playing innocent. “Woah, woah, woah! What’s going on here?”

You whip around, facing him instead of your dresser with another lamp in hand. “Like you don’t fucking know!”

“Y/n, what the hell?” He dodges the second lamp. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“How long?” you demand, picking up a book off of your desk and throwing that too.

“What are you talking about?”

“ _How long have you been cheating on me?”_

 _“Cheating?”_ Sam demands, turning to face his brother.

“Yes, Sam, cheating,” you snap, still glaring at Dean. “And from what I hear, you were in on it!”

Sam looks taken aback. “Y/n, I would never-”

“Don’t even try it, Sam,” you cut him off, whipping out your phone. “This is the text Dean was  _going_ to send to you. He sent it to me instead.”

Sam scans the text quickly, jaw clenching.

 _Sorry, bro._ Dean feels a little guilty for dragging Sam into it, but it’s better this way. Better for you to hate the both of them.

“So how long, Dean?” You turn your attention back to him and he tries not to flinch under your gaze. “How long have you been sleeping around? How long have I not been _good enough_ for you?”

 _It’s not you, baby,_ he thinks, but he can’t say the words.  _I’m not good enough for you. “_ Couple of months,” he says instead, holding your gaze, unwavering. “I was going to tell you.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you demand. You’re crying now, and he hates himself even more for being the cause of it.

And Dean wants nothing more,  _nothing more,_ than to pull you into his arms and to tell you the truth, that he loves you, that you’re perfect, that he can’t imagine his life with anyone  _but_ you, but he has to keep you safe. Because people around him get hurt. People around him get killed, and you’re better than that.

But he’s too close now. He’s in too deep now.

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he mutters. “It’s not like we were exclusive.”

“Not ex- Not -” You can’t even get the words out now, and he feels for you. He does. This can’t be easy. “I-” You look between him and Sam and he has to fight the urge to wipe your tears away. You shake your head. “Fine.  _Fine._ I know where the door is, right? You obviously don’t need me. Don’t - don’t  _want_ me. I’ll just go. Make it easier.”

You grab your bag, hastily packed, and sling it over your shoulder. You look once at Dean, once at Sam, and then back at Dean. “I guess this is it, then.” You meet Dean’s gaze, and he knows. He knows that you want him to tell you that this was all one cruel joke and to beg for your forgiveness.

He can’t.

“Take care of yourself, Y/n,” he whispers.

And then you’re gone.

And he let’s you go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months after you left, you and Dean meet up again during a case.

Dean never thought he’d see you again.

That night you packed your bag and walked out of his life without so much as a second glance. Sam had questions. Oh, but he had questions, and Dean couldn’t really answer any of them.

He didn’t have to.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Sam had snapped on his way out of the room. “Y/n was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

And he was right. Dean knew that.

But  _Dean_ was the worst thing that had ever happened to  _you._

Dean did what he could to put you out of his mind. He threw himself into cases, anything he could find. When he wasn’t working a case he was outside working on the Impala, or Sam’s truck, or any of the other dozen vehicles sitting in the Men of Letters’ garage.

When he ran out of cars to work on he started working around the bunker, making small repairs on the flickering lights and the squeaky hinges and even the goddammed leaky faucet that had been there since they moved in. He was just that desperate for distraction.

But it’s been three weeks.

It’s been three fucking weeks since he’s had a case. It’s been three weeks of grocery shopping and leaky faucets and Sam trying to convince him to go for a run and he’s not sure he can take it anymore.

He’d take anything.  _Literally anything._ He would take salt and burns, petty theft, hell, he’d rescue a cat from a tree if it meant getting his mind off of things, off of  _you._

So when he hears the door to the bunker creak open and Sam’s heavy footsteps on the staircase, Dean gets up to meet him. “ _Please_  tell me you’ve found something.”

Sam holds up the brown paper bag full of burgers with a shrug. “Does this count?”

Dean groans. “I mean a  _case,_ Sammy. I need a case.”

“Sorry, Dean, nothing’s come up.”

Dean tugs on his hair in agitation for a moment, biting back the urge to scream. “So when we’re, oh, I don’t know, trying to close the gates of hell or fight Satan himself or _prevent an angel war,_ the cases won’t stop coming. But we have three weeks of sitting with our thumbs up our asses and there’s  _nothing?”_

Sam claps him on the shoulder but says nothing.

The two boys eat in silence at one of the tables in the library, both of them hunched over their computers. Sam scans through the news, both local and national, and Dean runs a search for any stranded kittens.

When the phone rings he nearly trips over himself in his rush to answer it.

“Hello?” he says eagerly, not recognizing the number on display.

“Hey, Dean, it’s Jody Mills.”

“Sheriff Mills,” he says in surprise. “Didn’t recognize your number.”

“Yeah, I had to get a new one a couple months back,” she replies. “Dropped my old phone. Listen, I’ve got a case up here you might be interested in.”

“Does it have anything to do with cats?”

There’s a pause and then, “No?”

“We’ll be there.”

#

“I’ve gotta say, Agents,” Officer Cook says as he leads them past the yellow caution tape. “We don’t normally get FBI around these parts, and we especially don’t get three of ‘em.”

Dean and Sam exchange glances. “Three?” Dean asks with a raised eyebrow.

The officer seems surprised. “Well, sure, your colleague got here just a few minutes before you did.” He points to a woman with her back to them. “She’s right over there, questioning the witness.”

Dean glances over to where he’s pointing, eyes narrowing in suspicion for a moment. Then his jaw drops open.

He’d recognize you anywhere.

Sam follows his gaze and puts the pieces together quickly. “Thanks, Officer Cook, we’ll take it from here.”

“Sure thing,” the other man replies. “You boys let me know if you need anything.”

Sam waits until the officer is out of ear shot before speaking. “Dean?”

Dean glances up at him. “Yeah?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “How do you want to handle this?”

Dean looks at you, then to Sam, and then back at you, trying to come up with a game plan. He should just walk away. They should turn around and get back in the car and drive away, but he can’t. If the research he and Sam did prior is accurate, then you’re going up against an entire nest of vampires. It would be risky even for him and Sam to take the case, let alone you by yourself.

The only way to protect you is to convince you to work with him again. Just this once.

_Just this once._

“Let’s just go see what Y/n has to say,” he suggests, already starting toward you.

Sam hesitates for only a moment before following.

“Excuse me!” Dean calls when he’s within hearing distance. “Agent!” He sees the way your entire frame stiffens at the sound of his voice.

You turn slowly, disbelief plain in your gaze. You look down at your shoes for a moment, and when you meet Dean’s eyes again he can see that you’ve stolen yourself, hardened yourself against what’s coming. “Something I can help you with?” you call by way of greeting.

Sam and Dean hold up their badges.

The witness, a mousy looking man with narrow eyes looks between the three of you suspiciously. “How many agents does the FBI need on this case?” he asks.

“We’re from the California branch,” Dean says before you can answer. “Separate divisions. Our boss asked us to check things out.”

“Well, you can tell your boss I’ve already got it under control,” you reply, glaring at him. You turn your attention back to the witness. “You can go now, Mr. Stephens.” You wait until he’s well out of earshot before whirling on the boys. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

“Got a call from a friend,” Dean answers. “Told us there was a case we might be interested in. Figured we’d check it out.”

“Is that so?” You fold your arms over your chest. “Your friend shouldn’t have bothered. I’m working this case, and I don’t want you here.”

Sam takes a step back under the weight of your gaze, but Dean presses on. “Wasn’t looking for your permission, Y/n,” he says quietly.

You snort. “Oh, you’ve made it clear you don’t want  _anyone’s_ permission, Dean.”

Dean tries not to flinch at that. “What did the witness say?”

“Nothing relevant to my case,” you reply. “He found the body, but he didn’t see much else. Leave.”

“Y/n,” Dean sighs. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Like hell you’re not.” You jab a finger in his chest. “This is my case, Dean.  _My. Case._ I walked away last time to save us both some trouble, but not this time. This time you’re the one walking because I don’t owe you anything.”

“But you owe yourself,” he shoots back. “You’re smarter than this, Y/n. I know you-”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“- and I know you’ve done your research and you’ve checked your facts. The signs are all pointing to a nest of vampires and you’re not stupid enough to try to take it down alone.”

“Maybe I called someone.” The way you say this, Dean almost believes you, but you’re tapping your left index finger against your side and that’s always been your tell.

“Then let’s go meet up with them,” Dean suggests, calling your bluff. “I’ll leave as soon as I see your back up.”

For a long moment it’s just the two of you staring at each other, green against e/c, two warring souls trapped in a too small room. Dean can see how you’re trying to find a way to get rid of him, a way out. He knows you won’t come up with anything.

He wishes it didn’t have to be like this. He wishes that he could stop messing up, that he could stop hurting you.

You sigh. “There are two more people I want to interview,” you begin, pulling a small leather-bound notebook out of your pocket and flipping it open. “The first is the waitress from last night, in case she saw the vic leave with someone, and the second is the victim’s mother. This girl was young and had a lot going for her. It’s possible the vamp was someone she knew.”

Dean nods. “Alright. Why don’t Sammy and I-”

“I’ll take the waitress,” Sam cuts him off, shooting a pointed look at his brother. “You two can interview the mother.”

“That’s not a good idea,” you and Dean say in unison, and he almost smiles at that, at how you’re still on the same page after months apart.

“Deal with it,” Sam replies, and then he sets off for the bar.

Dean takes a moment to study you. You’re still beautiful, even when you’re pissed. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

But you look different now, harder. Your eyes used to sparkle almost constantly with hidden laughter, but now they just look tired. The laugh lines that used to be situated around the corners are gone now, replaced by the worn markings of someone who’s seen too much.

Part of him is ashamed for being the cause of this change.

“Should I drive, or…?” He trails off, waiting for you to finish, but your only response is to start marching in the direction of the Impala. Dean follows and slips into the driver’s seat silently.

You don’t say much. Actually, you don’t say anything except to offer directions when he needs them. He wonders if this is strange for you, being back in his car, if it feels wrong. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to Dean. In fact, for Dean this is as right as things have been in the past seven months. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye and marvels at the sight of you being back in his passenger seat. You’ve pulled your left leg up and are hugging your knee, just like you used to all that time ago, and with your face turned away from him, with the wind blowing through your hair and when he can’t see the way you’re frowning, he can almost convince himself you never left.

Almost.

“So,” Dean says to break the silence. “What have you been up to?”

You stare at him in disbelief for a long moment. “What have I been  _up to?”_

He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s been a while, you must’ve been doing something.”

You bark out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“You want to know what I’ve been doing, Dean?” You turn in your seat to face him. “I spent the first month drunk on my ass trying to figure out what I did wrong. I spent the second month drunk on my ass trying to figure out what the hell your problem was. And then I spent five months naming monsters after you before I killed them.”

Dean opens his mouth, trying to find the words. He  _wants_ to tell you what really happened seven months ago. He wants you to know that you didn’t do anything  _wrong,_ that he forced your hand, that he manipulated you. He wants to tell you that the girl from the bar was no one and that he’d never cheated on you, never even  _thought_ of it, and he wants to take your face in his hands and kiss you until you can’t remember why you hate him anymore. It’s like every fiber of his being is trying to be near you.

What he wouldn’t give to just let it happen.

“This is it,” you say, breaking him of his thoughts as you point out a red brick house on the corner of the street. “This is the house.”

Dean guides the Impala to the side of the road, and he hasn’t even turned off the engine before you’re sliding out of the passenger seat and striding up to the front door.

You bang your fist against the door, foot tapping impatiently, rolling your eyes when Dean comes to stand behind your left shoulder.

An older woman answers, peeking out through the crack before removing the chain. “Are you the girl who wants to talk about my daughter?” she asks, peering closely at you.

“Yes, ma’am,” you and Dean say at the same time before glaring at each other.

The woman smiles. “What a cute couple.”

“We’re not a couple,” you say quickly.

Dean sighs. It’s going to be a long case.

#

“And the warehouse is where?” Dean asks, phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear as he fumbles with the key to the motel room.

“Ten miles east of town,” Sam replies. “Back road. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere. I’m already parked outside, staking it out, but we should make a move before tonight.”

“Alright,” Dean says, nearly dropping his bag as you shoulder past him roughly. “Y/n and I just stopped at the motel to change, but we’ll be there as soon as we can. Just sit tight.”

“Dean, whatever’s going on between you two…” Sam begins, trailing off awkwardly.

Dean watches the way you throw your duffel onto one of the beds. “I know, Sammy. See you soon.”

“Sam found the nest?” you ask without looking at him.

“Yeah,” Dean replies. He watches you for a long moment as you practically rip open your bag and begin to throw wadded up T-shirts onto the bed. “You want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

He holds his arms away from his sides. “This. Us. Whatever the hell is going on right now.”

You slip off your jacket. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“The tornado going through your bag seems to say otherwise.”

You look at the mess you made for a long moment before facing him. “Why’d you do it?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest. “Why’d you cheat on me?”

He shrugs. “I told you, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

You shake your head. “No. You keep saying that, but I don’t buy it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I know you? Because it’s all I’ve thought about for the past seven months and it just doesn’t make sense? Because you’re a lot of things but a cheater has never been one of them? The Dean Winchester I know, the Dean I  _fell in love with,_ that Dean would never have done something like that unless he thought he had a damn good reason.”

Dean stares at his bag and says nothing.

“Tell me why, Dean,” you say quietly. “The  _truth._ Tell me why you broke my heart.”

He smiles, a bitter, self-deprecating thing. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.” He turns his back to you, stripping off his suit in favor of jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Try me.”

He turns around. “What if I said it was-”

Dean cuts off abruptly.

You glance over your shoulder, standing in just a bra and jeans, one eyebrow quirked at his sudden silence. “Dean?” you prompt when he just stands there.

Dean’s eyes are locked on the scar running down the length of your left shoulder blade, the pale pink a stark contrast to the rest of your skin. It’s six inches long and at least an inch thick.

“Dean.”

He points, index finger shaking a bit. “How did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“ _That.”_

You crane your neck a little. “What, my scar?” He nods and you scoff. “I’m a  _hunter,_ Dean,” you say, turning to face him. “Scars are part of the job description.”

Now that you’re facing him he can see other scars that weren’t there seven months ago. There are three running diagonally across the plane of your stomach, and a smaller, thinner line above your right breast.

“You’ve been hunting since you left?” Dean asks, slowly starting to approach you, eyes still raking over your closed up wounds.

“What did you expect me to do?” you demand as you slip on a plaid shirt, the red one that had been missing from his closet he realizes. “Lay down and die?” Button by button you start to cover up your scars. “Was I just supposed to give up? Because I didn’t have a boyfriend anymore?” 

You shake your head. “No, Dean. You were important to me, no denying that, but you weren’t - you weren’t everything. I had cases, I had hunting. Saving people. That’s everything. Doing my job. You didn’t want me, Dean, and yeah, that hurt like hell, but I wasn’t just going to give up, you know?” You’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, bent over to lace up your combat boots.

He sees another scar now, this one running the length of your forearm, and that’s when it hits him.

Dean left you to keep you safe. That was his reason, his justification, his excuse. He forced you away because the thought of being without a  _living_ you was a hell of a lot more bearable than a world where you were dead. And after that, every hunt he went on, every time it got too close and it was almost the end of him, his one thought was, “ _At least she’s safe.”_

But you  _weren’t._ He stayed away from you for  _seven months,_ and you still have at least a dozen new scars that tell him you’ve had plenty of close calls. A dozen new scars that he might’ve been able to  _prevent_ if he’d been with you. A dozen new scars saying, “Look at me, I’ve gotten hurt, but I’m still surviving.”

Here he’d been thinking that  _he_ was the problem, when maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe he’s not poison. Maybe there’s not some family curse killing everyone he’s ever loved. Maybe Dean has just been that unlucky.

And maybe you’re the start of his luck coming back.

He crouches down in front of you and catches your wrist gently in his hand, turning your arm over so he can examine your scar. He brushes his fingers over the slightly raised skin, up and down, back and forth, just marveling at it. Goosebumps form in the wake of his touch, and when he glances up at your face he sees that your eyes are closed. You shiver just a little underneath his touch, lips parting slightly.

Your eyelids flutter open ad you hold his gaze. Slowly, ever so slowly, Dean starts to close the distance between the two of you. He lets his eyes fall shut as he feels your warm breath ghost over his face and he’s  _so close_ to getting you back, to putting this right and-

Dean’s eyes fly open as you shove him back and away from you.

“ _No,”_ you gasp, chest heaving. “No. You don’t just get to walk back into my life and pretend everything’s back to normal.”

“I wasn’t-”

“No, Dean,” you whisper. You hug yourself, like you’re trying to hold all your pieces together, to keep from springing apart. “No.”

He watches you as you scramble to your feet. “Y/n,” he whispers, begging,  _begging_ you to stop and listen to him.

You freeze, your hand on the doorknob, and he holds his breath.

Your shoulders slump. “Let’s just go.”

He stands there for a long moment, trying to get his breath back.

Trying to figure out a way to get  _you_ back.

#

“That’s the last of them,” Sam whispers as the last group of vamps disappears inside the warehouse.

“Let’s move,” Dean replies.

The three of you creep out from your hiding spot cautiously, eyeing the entranceway warily.

“Let’s go over the plan again,” you suggest, keeping low as you move toward the door.

“I’m going in the back,” Sam says immediately. “Goal is to take down any of the targets still asleep.”

“And we’re going in the front,” Dean finishes. “To deal with the guards and anyone else who’s awake.”

You nod. “Good. Let’s just all be sure to check our targets and to keep things quiet. If we can avoid bringing the whole hive down on our heads, we’ll all be going home relatively unscathed tonight.”

After making one last check of your equipment, the three of you split up, and at your nod, Dean slides open the door and slips into the shadowy building.

You make it all of three steps before you encounter your first vamp, but before you can so much as move Dean is already swinging his machete and taking off its head.

He sees your jaw clench and prepares himself for an argument, but to his surprise you just step over the body and keep moving. He gets to the second target as well, taking it down in one easy sweep, but you’re already on the third before he can do anything about it.

Your swing is fast and clean, but instead of slicing through it gets lodged on the bone. You swear, narrowly avoiding the snapping fangs as you rip the blade free and swing again, taking the beast down and covering you both in a fine red mist of blood.

“You good?” Dean asks, grabbing your shoulder as he looks you over for wounds.

You pull away from him, eyes narrowing. “I’m  _fine.”_

_“_ You have to be more careful,” he continues, ignoring the way your eyes flash with anger. “Put more force behind your swings or you’re going to lose your head.”

“Would you  _stop that?”_ you snap, whirling around to face him. “When are you going to get it through your head that I’m not some helpless little  _princess,_ Dean? I’m a hunter, not a damsel in distress!”

Dean groans. “I never said you  _were,_ I’m just trying to-”

“To smother me? To hover like an overprotective boyfriend even though you gave up that job  _months_ ago?” 

“I’m not the one who - Y/n behind you!” But Dean shouts out the warning too late and suddenly there are four vamps surrounding you, knocking your weapons to the ground and pinning your arms to your sides before either of you can react.

They drag you down the hall, both of you kicking and shouting the whole way, but despite your struggles the two of you still end up sitting on the ground, tied to two pillars.

Dean swears, throwing his head back against the stone. “You see?  _This._ This is why I did it.”

“Did what?” you snap, struggling against the ropes that bind you.

“ _This is why I made you leave me.”_

Your head snaps up. “What?”

Dean’s eyes close for a long moment as he realizes what he just said.

“ _You did what?”_

Dean sighs. “I made you leave me, Y/n.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. “You - I don’t -”

“Do you honestly think I’d cheat on you?” he demands. “With some - some  _nobody_ from the bar? I never cheated, Y/n. Not even once. Sam wasn’t in on it, it was all a lie. I just knew it was the only thing I could do to force your hand.”

“But  _why?”_ you whisper. “Why did you need to do that?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!” he shouts. “Because everyone around me ends up dead and I couldn’t let that happen to you. This was the only way!”

You stare at him with wide eyes and then suddenly there’s a snap. The ropes fall away from your wrists and then you’re on your feet and scooping up your machete. “I don’t-” You slice off the head of the first vamp. “Need you-” The second head hits the ground with a dull, wet thump. “To protect me!”

Dean watches in silent amazement as you make your way through the horde of vampires, a whirlwind of flashing metal and deadly accuracy. You’re little more than a blur as you swing over and over again, sending heads rolling and blood spraying with each strike.

It seems like only heartbeats before the room is quiet and you’re just standing there in the middle of a pile of bodies, chest heaving as you glare at Dean. You fall to your knees in front of him, machete smacking against the ground with a clang as you cup his face in your hands.

“You’re such a jackass,” you whisper with tears streaming down your face. “You are a stubborn asshole, and for once, just this once, you’re going to be selfish.” And then you kiss him.

It’s like Dean’s world has been in black and white until this moment, and now everything’s being plunged into color. He kisses you like his life depends on it, your taste mixing with the salt of your tears, and sweat, and pain, and brokenness, and healing. He strains against his bonds, aching to touch you, to be closer to you, and when the ropes finally come free with a snap he’s wrapping his arms around you and crushing you against his chest.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing a line down your jaw to where he can feel your pulse hammering against your throat. “God, I love you so much.”

And he realizes that’s all that’s ever mattered.

 


End file.
